


A Million Dreams Ago

by Naldi_16



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Brother Feels, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dead Money, Hallucinations, Hidden Valley bunker, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sierra Madre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naldi_16/pseuds/Naldi_16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soldier on the search of a new beginning in the deserts of the Mojave finds himself caught in a betrayal of faith. In Caesar's arena, he must come to terms with the sins of his past, or watch the ghosts of war consume him entirely. </p><p>This is my first attempt at bringing a character to life on a fanfic site that I've been working on for years - all spectrums of criticism welcomed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sun is Killing Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the discovery of a prototypical piece of technology, Brotherhood sniper Desmond O'Connor and his partner in crime, Veronica Santangelo, are set to return to Hidden Valley to report their findings and request aid to extract said tech. The morning of their walk back home, Veronica notices something off with her companion. 
> 
> This story is still very much a work in progress, and I apologize for time jumps and other continuity issues.

_The sun is killing me…_

 

Sunlight poured through the cracks in the wooden walls of the decrepit, abandoned shack. The latest shelter for the pair of misled wanderers wasn’t the least bit sturdy, nor was it defensible by any standard. In fact, it’s basic function in holding four walls and a roof over their heads was highly questionable, as the Scribe was quick to point out upon first inspection late into the evening. 

Veronica’s partner in crime - the quiet, distant sniper from the Midwest - did little to adhere to her concerns. Instead, Desmond O’Connor told her to hunker down for the night, get what food she could into her belly, and quit whining about the creaky floorboards. The Scribe would protest almost just for the sake to get beneath the sniper’s skin – just to see if she could finally wiggle some sort of smile out of him. This was one of those few nights that she saw a small hint of a smirk at the edge of a face ever so watchful of the East, locked into the past that had followed him into the Mojave.

The mornings were never easy for the Scribe – from filling that growling stomach with some Nuclear Winter Frosted Sugar Bombs to just gathering the sheer will to escape the comfort of her bedroll, she dreaded the rising of that Mojave sun. Her nose crinkled as the rays bearing through the slits in the wood soaked her eyelids clenching shut, refusing their welcome to the day. Slender appendages grabbed at the cover of her roll, the fabric pulled over her messy bedhead (which hadn’t been covered at this unholy hour, for shame!) in an effort to escape the morning.

“Five more minutes…” Veronica grumbled into whatever entity controlled the damn sun’s light. Her mumbling was answered by the sound of a magazine loading into a rifle in the opposite corner of the shack.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” The sniper observed nonchalantly as he tended to his rifle. Appendages grasped the cloth that delicately traced the steel lining of the weapon’s frame in an almost pointless attempt to keep as much dust and sand out of the weapon as he could. Outstretched palms from the female hit the wooden floor of the shack in an effort to push the groggy frame of the awakened Scribe up.

“Has anyone told you that you have the sleep schedule of a molerat?” Desmond didn’t respond while Veronica’s knuckle retracted to her lids to brush away the annoying traces of sand in her eyes. There was an advantage to having a traveling partner that didn’t even bother to sleep most nights; peeling the bedroll back towards her feet, the smell of roasting Cram flooded Veronica’s senses, her stomach growling its desire to scarf down some breakfast as they made their way to Hidden Valley. Highway 95 was much easier to traverse when the sun sent most of the geckos back into their caves, anyway. Dainty hands pulled on the dirty fabric that stuck to her body, mumbled curses that the ripped cloth with each singe from a Laser RCW and tears from teeth of a Nightstalker wasn’t a pearly white dress that told the wasteland – “back up bitch: Veronica has arrived!” 

Static from the old decrepit Radiation King in the corner of the shack that sat upon some broken table – its frame dusty and its antennae bent. As the Scribe’s arms reached for the sun, stretching out aching muscles in preparation for more marching (and hopefully more punching), she glanced over towards the sniper, sticking literally to his guns. He always worked in the morning with the radio running; he never seemed too fond of the silence at night.

"And we're back. This is Mr. New Vegas, and I feel something magic in the air tonight, and I'm not just talking about the gamma radiation. Here's one from the Mills Brothers for your morning, reminding you to keep your cool in the heat of the Mojave." Following the disc jockey’s quip, a collection of brass instruments fought through the radio’s static, echoing about the wooden walls of the tightly closed space that the pair used for their sleeping quarters. Pushing herself to her feet, the scribe silently observed her partner. He hadn’t lifted his head all morning, though that was nothing unusual. He would spend hours tending to his rifles, and it was that kind of care in his craft that kept both of them alive. Still…there were moments where he wished that he would just put the fucking gun down and speak his mind – maybe he’d be able to wipe that perma-scowl off his face that way. Taking the cue from her rumbling stomach, Veronica followed the scent of the steaming Cram that sat just beside the sniper. 

_You wouldn't be angry with me, would you?_  
_If I perhaps misunderstood you,  
_Why have a fallin' out just when we're fallin' in love?_ _

Veronica loved the soothing, serene sounds of these old world musicians. Their art was so lost in the wasteland today – no one could reciprocate such melodies (and even if they had the talent too, there weren’t enough salvageable instruments in order to do so, so arguing about it wasn’t going to help anyone, okay?!). She wondered what instrument she would play as she took her seat across from Desmond – his back turned to her – while she reached for the breakfast of GI-issue meat, once cooked by oven, once more by the bombs, rotisserie cooked by nuclear radiation for over two hundred years, and reheated by her favorite sniper. Sure – it wasn’t a freshly opened Fancy Lad, but she couldn’t quite have a Snack Cake for every breakfast (or at least not now, when food had to be shared – as long as Desmond didn’t stumble onto her secret stash of snack cakes in her pack!). 

“Dammit Des, where is my coffee?” Veronica’s sarcastic protest caused the smallest hint of a playful grin to tug at her lips, though it quickly evaporated as Desmond tended to his routine. Palms retracting the bolt, eyes staring down the firing chamber of the rifle. Not a single grain of sand, or else the weapon misfires, and they both die. With the prize tucked into the bottom of his ruck, he couldn’t afford a single mistake. Hundreds back home depended on his success in bringing the Cartographer back. The scribe’s expression slowly developed into a frown, even after her first bite of breakfast, and it wasn’t because of the rusty aftertaste left behind by the radiation. 

“Are you just going to be Mister Anti-Social today?” The scribe questioned as fork poked whatever kind of old world animal used to make up the meat that were found in these cans all over the desert. The texture was funny in her mouth, but at least when she swallowed the bite it momentarily quieted her rumbling stomach. 

“You’ll thank me when I don’t misfire out there.” The sniper didn’t remove his gaze from the weapon during his retort, locking the bolt back into place as he moved for the optic. 

“I’ll thank you when I get my coffee.” A loud, unapologetic belch that tasted of old mystery meat echoing along with the sounds of the Mills Brothers over the Radiation King. Hoping to get some sort of reaction out of the sniper, anything, Veronica gave a more frustrated huff as Desmond’s appendages adjusted the elevation on his scope, compensating for the flat 95 that they were to traverse. “Don’t you have an off switch or something?”

“I’ll turn off when the job is done.” His voice was flat, and Veronica had to stop herself from grabbing the sniper by his shoulders and shaking some form of life or emotion out of him. 

“You need to get out of your little head sometimes.” Another chomp of her breakfast – that Cram had such a bitter aftertaste, but she wouldn’t dare protest to the soldier. 

“I prefer it up here.” The sniper attempted to dismiss, eyes glancing into the readjusted optic to reassure his work. 

“All of that empty space sure is interesting, huh?” A giggle suppressed in the last bite of her morning meal. 

_Tomorrow when skies are gettin' starry,_  
_Wouldn't we get to feelin' sorry?  
_Why have a fallin' out just when we're fallin' in love?_ _

“It helps keep everything in perspective.” Desmond didn’t find it quite as humorous, or perhaps he did and he wouldn’t ever dare to admit that her jokes were better than his. The frustration was evident in the scribe, and she could take it no longer. Palms pushed down on the table, forcing her to her feet. Boots would stomp their way over until her shadow cascaded over Desmond’s rifle, forcing him to finally turn his eyes away from the weapon. 

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

“Doing what?” Curious eyebrows furrowed on the sniper’s expression as he feigned ignorance. 

“This! This exact thing, Desmond!” Arms flailed in the scribe’s infuriatingly futile attempts to crack the nut that was Desmond O’Connor. “You sit here and act like the people closest to you are total strangers! You’ll crack a Fiend’s skull, and then when it comes to just sitting and talking shop, you can’t do it!”

“Our work is saving lives.” The sniper protested from Veronica’s outburst. “Cracking those skulls is what is keeping us alive,” 

“Alive?” A confused expression falling over her face. “What life? Desmond – you are so stuck in the past that you can’t see what is right in front of you in the present! You can’t just put the guns down for five fucking minutes, can you?!” Palms rose to Veronica’s eyelids, whether an act of frustrating sadness or maddening irritation, she had no idea. The rifle fell upon the sniper’s knees, caressed by dirty palms as tired irises glanced curiously at the scribe before him, her frame nearly shivering. 

“Veronica, I-“

“No, don’t do that,” She spat out, her boots spinning on her heels to face the door of the shack. Desmond’s face dropped. Concern enveloped his face, feeling as if he were in a foreign presence with this scribe that he had spent weeks on the road with. Sure, he had seen her emotional in the past; talking about her parents was one of those few triggers that she had. But this was different. “You can’t just flip a page and pretend that everything didn’t happen. It doesn’t feel alive, Desmond.” 

An uncomfortable silence between the two. A quick glance up to see the back of the hooded female, and then back down towards his rifle, closer towards his waist. As the sniper’s knees extended to stand, a strong palm reached down for the cloth sack that sat tied on his belt, next to where his sidearm rested. A gentle tug, followed by an audible, metallic jingle from within the container. Opposite palm grasping the receiver of the rifle, Desmond took two steps beside Veronica, and though he was concerned for the aching scribe, he tried not to force her to look at him as he spoke in a solemn tone. 

“I can feel their weight tugging at my hip with every step in this desert. This mission, this objective that we are to recover...they were the ones to pay for what I had done. I owe it to them to see this through.” The fabric, and the weight within, was pushed into Veronica’s palm. “I envy you – you know what it’s like to feel alive, still.” 

Boot steps echoed across dry, dusty floorboards as Veronica’s damp face glistened in the sunlight that poured in as Desmond pushed the door open to the desert that he had learned to call home by now. She watched his shadow become consumed by the sun as he looked over the mountains to the east. Her curious eyes then slowly turned towards this cloth sack pressed into her hands. Slender appendages delicately pulled the string to open the container, and the familiar scent of steel on copper flowed into her nostrils. Bathed in the sunlight, she saw the holotags that were kept in here – many of them saturated in blood, singed by fire, cut by shrapnel. There had to be at least twenty in here, and they made a clinking whenever the sniper shuffled his body, loaded a magazine, pulled a trigger, sat down to rest…

Twenty names of young men and women left behind. Her heart sunk as she turned back towards the open door. Desmond’s palm had come up to shield his gaze from the sun, his eyes straining to get a good look at the light azure of the morning sky. Few things were so serene out here in the Mojave – he had to take what he could get. 

“If we leave now, we’ll be able to make Hidden Valley before dinner.” Desmond glanced over his shoulder to the scribe. “…but I’m not cooking for you again.”

Veronica’s shoulders dipped as she let out a content sigh, shoving the tiny satchel into her pocket as she picked up her ruck to follow him into the sandy hills. 

“You’re such a smooth talker, yanno that?” Boots kicking up in order to catch up with him, she too heard the tags calling out to her with every step she took. Irises that had only recently lost their gloss caught the figure of the sniper as her appendages clung to the strap of her pack thrown over her shoulder. It didn’t matter. If they were to make it out – make it home – they would have to do it side by side. His mission was her mission; his burden was her burden.

_We've gotten along so very nicely,_  
_Baby, and that's my point precisely,  
_Why have a fallin' out just when we're fallin' in love?_ _

A tender palm rose to block the intense light of the morning burning onto a young scribe’s countenance, grumbling as she walked step by step with the sniper along the broken river on concrete leading to the south.

“The sun is killing me…”

 

She wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Lacta Alea Est

Darkness enveloped his senses. The former Paladin cringed against the cloth that shielded his eyes, his body writhing in agonizing pain that rested from Paladin Hardin’s zap glove. The frame of the sniper squirmed in vain upon the dirt beneath him, wrists and ankles bound by rope to keep the soldier from escaping whatever cell these shadows had left him in. For what purpose, he did not know. Frankly, Desmond O’Connor wasn’t sure why he was left alive by these agents of Caesar, or if he wanted to live long enough to find out his captor’s true intentions. 

It must have been at least two days by now. Desmond couldn’t tell through the blindfolds. The heat was unbearable in the tent, and he was helpless to wipe the accumulating sweat across his hairline with his hands tied and behind his back. His lips, dry and cracking, begged for hydration, and that was outside of the dirty, irradiated water that his captors in crimson had fed him over his short prison sentence. His belly ached, and as much as the dry brush cut at his mouth, he would kill to have another helping from the Decanus that periodically came to nourish him shortly before he spat in the sniper’s face, kicked dust in his mouth, and told him what a worthless profligate he was.

This was no simple happening; the sniper told himself as he wiggled at his rope ties and groaned at the dirt. The rope was beginning to cut into his wrists, and the warm crimson fluid travelled slowly down his forearm, eventually dripping into splatters on the sand.

No, this was calculated.

The assassins arrived just as Hardin and his kill squad came to finish him and Veronica, per Macnamara’s twisted fucking orders. No, someone had set him up. Someone knew, but few in this desert even knew of his existence. Marcus Ryder, the only man capable of tracking Desmond for the distance that he had come, was killed in the uprising in Detroit, and to be frank, no one in Chicago gave a shit about what Desmond did.

Who was it? It mattered little to Desmond. His companion and he would likely be thrown against a pair of wooden planks and crucified before Caesar himself as an example of the Legion’s dominance over the technology of the old world, another example of primate humanity overcoming the greater good.

Desmond continued to wiggle in the dirt.

“Hey, do you mind?” A familiar voice echoed in the pitch blackness of his vision. You sound like a rabid Molerat trying to dig through the bunker wall.” Veronica’s voice seemed to soothe the anxious sniper.

“Yeah…” Desmond gruffly called into the dark shade of the crimson covering his darkened hues. “It’s good to hear you’re still alive too.”

“Well aren't we the optimistic one!” Despite their situation, Veronica tried to remain positive. She refused to accept defeat. She was a Brotherhood scribe, damn it. Her parents fought at HELIOS. “These guys just can't take fashion advice from a woman. They're jealous I look hotter in a dress than they do and--”

“Maybe they’re afraid, because they know you could kick their ass?” Desmond interrupted her.  
"Of course!" Desmond chuckled ever slightly at the mentioning that she’d ever be able to use her fists again in any manner. His sniper rifle and her power fist were likely melded down into armor for the Legion by now. Even if they got out, they wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Desmond grimaced at the realization that he was likely going to be dead in the next few hours. His own life he had figured would be left to the wasteland to figure out months ago. This much was no mystery. No, he hated having to drag Veronica down with him.

“I’m sorry,” He couldn’t run from his past any longer, now that it was going to cause both of their demises. Veronica paused, as if she were trying to match glances through the blindfolds.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Do you think I had a choice?”

“What, did you think I was going to rat you out to Macnamara?”

Desmond paused to let off a sigh. He could feel the dead flakes cracking off of his lips, pushed off by the gentle breeze from his lungs.

“What happened in Detroit…I just wanted what was best for everyone, both inside the chapter and out of it. I didn’t expect it to turn out like it did, or for it to blow up in my face a thousand miles away.”

“I trusted you, Desmond…” Veronica gave a weak call through the darkness.

“Look, I’m not some kind of anarchist trying to break up chapters across the wasteland!”

“All you had to do was tell me!” Their voices began to pick up.

“I wanted to!” Desmond’s tone turned from an annoyance to a sorrowful one. He could hear the footsteps being kicked up due to the prisoners’ heightened vocal expressions. “I didn’t want you to get mixed up in my past affairs, in the blood on my hands.” He could add Veronica’s blood to it now. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

There was a silence before the bootsteps became louder, echoing into the eardrums of both participants in the short conversation.

“I’m sorry.”

The Legionnaires filed through the tent, laden in their standard crimson armor with their balaclavas and sunglasses hiding their countenances and the disciplined expression as red mass reached out for Desmond. While two Legionnaires held him down, the leading Decanus stepped before him.

“The time has come for you to meet your fate,” Motioning to the men, the blindfold was ripped off Desmond’s face, and his darkened hues were nearly blinded by the piercing sunlight that he had been deprived of for two days. “Frumentarius ex Ferro wishes for a personal audience with you in the arena.”

With both arms still tied to one another and forced to his back, the two men reached up and grabbed the sniper, pulling him to his feet.

“A profligate like you may last two…maybe three minutes. I can’t wait to personally hang your body on the hill.”

Desmond paid no attention to the Decanus. He instead tried to watch Veronica, bound to her own ties. Her hood had been thrown from her head, and she was likely going to kick the next Legionnaire to touch her in the balls for it. She could sense Desmond’s impending departure, on top of listening to the bastards surrounding the two, and gave one last quip before the sniper was to be hauled away.

“Make sure they crucify me in a nice dress, will ya?” Veronica’s image disappeared behind two more recruits that were ordered to take her away.

“No!” Desmond tried to resist, but the number of men assigned to his restraint would outweigh his weakened strength to get to her. “Veronica!” The machete’s hilt was harder than he would’ve imagined, or would’ve liked. The blow was enough to wish that it had killed him. From the fresh gash at his temple, blood would slowly ooze down his face, covered in dirt after the countless times he had been thrown to the desert floor by Hardin and these Legion scum.

Desmond could feel his body being dragged, though he could not control it. He could feel the blood running down his face, though he could not stop it. He felt the heat. He could see the light of the sun.

Everything would fade to black, a dark, dense, and horrifying reality that he was being led to his death.

The light would come again, and he could almost hear the faint tone of his brother’s voice blowing in the breeze.

Nicholas…

His vision would return to a pair of gates. Before he had realized it, one of the Legionnaires had grabbed Desmond’s arm while his machete sliced through the rope that bonded his hands. The Decanus from before splashed Desmond’s face with a bowl of water. The sniper couldn’t tell if it was filled with radiation or not – though very likely – he was shocked by the icy temperature that now permeated across his face and soaked his uniform. Gasping for air, the sniper’s body was dropped, and he roughly fell onto his hands and knees. Some of the water had made its way into his lungs, for which Desmond had to cough up the few droplets that found their way through. Spitting the irradiated water onto the sand, the sniper wheezed to catch his breath.

At this display of weakness, he could hear voices behind him. Legion voices, and for all he knew they were probably placing bets on how long he was going to survive this engagement.

As his chin slowly turned upward, Desmond could hear the echoes of low drum beats, almost like a march. These drums simply drowned out the noise of….applause. Cheers and hand claps began to thunder inside of Desmond’s head. There was whistling. There was more cheerful whooping, and for a moment Desmond had wondered if he had been dragged into some sick skit at Gomorrah, though he knew the truth was going to be much, much more harsh.

One of the crimson bodies that surrounded him dropped a machete before his hands, chuckling as he did so.

“Doubt it will be of any help.”

As Desmond’s fingers stretched outwards, trying to grasp onto the blade, the gates began to slowly creak ahead of him. The parting light struck his face, and the cheers began to grow louder. The sniper could hear metal hitting against metal. There were grunts, and then there was a cry – synchronizing with the sound of metal running through flesh. As the gates opened, a figure was revealed with a machete stuck in his lung, gargling the blood that was quickly flooding his capacity to breathe. He was dressed like a Great Khan, and the injury forced him to his knees, dropping the machete to the sand amid uproarious cheers from the surrounding capacity crowd that began to emerge in the sniper’s vision.

The man reached up to his assailant, a man dressed in the sleek, crimson armor of a veteran soldier of Caesar. Upon the metallic piece that sat on his tunic were the marks of his conquests. An NCR Veteran Ranger’s gas mask made up part of the shoulder blade. His gauntlets were forged from the cyanic metal of House’s Securitrons. Upon his faze was a golden gladiator’s mask – the horrifying expression of the mask had even some of the Praetorians labeling the warrior as Letum – the personification of death.

The Khan, with ribbons of blood flowing out of his mouth, begged the warrior for forgiveness.

Letum would response with a swift swing of his machete. The Khan’s eyes shot open as the blade pierced through flesh and bone. Within seconds, the decapitated head rolled across the sand as the dead body slumped the ground. The crowd loved it, screaming their approval of the maneuver as the Legion figure turned to the crowed. Hundreds of people had made their attendance noted at this arena. Whether it was on Fortification Hill or not, Desmond did not know. The powerful figure would raise his machete in a horizontal manner above his crown, so that the entire audience could see the blood streaks across the length of his blade. They ate it up. Desmond looked to the thundering mass of people that had shown up to witness this monstrosity at work.

They were not all Legionnaires. Some looked like Caravaneers from the Arizona territory coming to see a show. There was at least one face from Freeside. The man brandished a black suit, a cigarette between his lips, a laser pistol in his pocket snuck into the encampment, and two whores at his side.

Families had come from the Arizona. Mothers, not daring to look a man in the eyes, had brought their children to view their future as warring Legionnaires like the Frumentarius that stood with his sword raised.

A man from the California minded his own business and tried to ignore the gushing blood from the corpse’s neck stump or the stain on the blade. He remained quiet amongst the applause.

Vulpes watched with a satisfaction that was almost foreign to him, a smug smirk laden upon his face as he watched the golden expression of Letum. Ex Ferro was a brute force of Caesar’s will. His ruthlessness in helping Caesar forge the mightiest of tribes was only matched by his brutality in the arena. He had forged himself a fine Frumentarius.

When the display had ended, the warrior turned to face the head of the arena, where Lucius stood beside the throne of Caesar, whom also watched with an amused expression. As Ex Ferro took a knee in obedience to his Emperor – his God – Lucius stood forward to motion to the crowd to lower their voices in anticipation of the Grand Finale. With his hands outstretched, the crowd began to quiet down.

Callum’s face began to rise; he knew of the next opponent which sat at the gates behind him.

“Your attention!” Lucius yelled over the anticipating voices of the audience. “Frumentarius Ex Ferro, you have fought well in the name of Caesar!” The crowd voiced its agreement. “The Profligates of the West will come to fear the mere utterance of your existence! Your Emperor asks for one last show of your loyalty!”

As Lucius pointed to the gates, Desmond was pushed through, struggling to maintain his balance in his state. His irises, dilating in his current condition, tried to focus on the figure kneeling across the arena from him.

“Behold! The Eastern Eagle descends upon you as a menace to our very Legion! Make an example of this cretin! Show the entire dissolute that the wrath of Caesar cannot be avoided!”

The crowd began to roar, nearly shaking the foundation of the arena. If that didn’t do it, Frumentarius Ex Ferro’s monsterous boot steps did. Sinking into the sand, the warrior spun on his heels to face the silhouette of his opponent. Desmond watched the figure turn, his heart sinking as he watched the glare of the sunlight reflect off his armor. The crowd was calling for the sniper’s head, just as it did for the Great Khan. Desmond watched the frame of Letum stepping towards him with a piercing gaze that struck fear into the fear that ever saw it.

No, this kind of hatred was saved for someone much closer to the Frumentarius than the NCR could ever hope to be. Years of pain, abandonment, and loss had manifested itself in the irises of Letum’s golden mask. He stopped his stalk about five lengths from the sniper. His chest still heaving, Desmond looked over the crowd, and then to Letum.

“The Eastern Eagle?” Desmond asked to the slated expression. “That’s quite the name.”

“You will have no name after this fight. You will be another pile on the graves of the masses.” Despite the mask deepening and disrupting the tone, Desmond couldn’t help but to feel an aura of familiarity.

“Why does Caesar want me dead so badly?” The warrior only responded with the paralyzing glare. “Why do you want me dead so badly?”

“You delay the inevitable with your words, now you will atone for the sins of your past” The Frumentarius brandished his blade, to which Desmond was forced to prepare your own.

As Ex Ferro made the first swing of the engagement, horizontally narrowly missing Desmond’s torso, the crowd roared its approval and its bloodlust as a falcon glided gentle circles over the arena.

 

_  
No one could deny the lavish design of the Ultra Luxe. Marble walls stretched for the Heavens, as if they could begin to hold in the egos of the developers and current residents of the resort casino. The white finish almost radiated its own light from the sleek finish that wrapped about the entire foundation. Marjorie would not allow for a single dust bunny to sullen the appearance of this fantastic night. The entire tribe of White Gloves - and any face in Vegas with a single ounce of class - was going to be here to celebrate Mortimer's birthday._

_The wine had been set out, chilled and aged to perfection. Some of the Gloves had boasted that it came from a far away place known as Eye-Taly before the war, and it was renown for its grapes - second to none in the entire world. Of course, in the land where only agave and tobacco could grow, the literal fruits of the pre-war labor that had fermented for all of these centuries was certainly a delicacy, even if the taste had become somewhat bitter over its lifespan._

_The piano rattled off soft, harmonious notes that echoed about the wall, giving the ballroom that extra sense of elegance and gracefulness. With each key struck down, a new melody and a new way of looking at the wasteland. The people that flooded in, gathering with masks upon their faces of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colors may have been full of themselves, but they were some of the most brilliant minds in the Mojave. They spoke in an accent that was even foreign to their upbringing, but as long as it gave them the appearance of being something...better...than the crowds that surrounded them, then they would do whatever it took._

_Long suits stood beside ravishing dresses that covered such petit frames. Each countenance had a mask in a royal color as the piano paused its rhythm. As it did so, the suits turned towards the dresses. A certain set of eyes, trained for such perception, had found its target. Arm brushing past a hidden .22, silenced and tucked deep within the confines of the suit jacket, he reached out for the female before him, pale in complexion yet still standing with a slightly intimidating presence despite the tranquility of the mask over her face._

_As the piano gave another melody, the strong palms of Desmond O'Connor took in the petit appendages of the female. Harps would join, and before long, the entire floor was alive with a gentle dance. The sniper smirked slightly, gazing into the eyes that stared back at him._

_"You know how much I hate showing my hair off like this," Veronica muttered at the outcast in a hushed slur, mentioning the hairdo that was forced upon her in order to meet the dress code for the lavish ball. Desmond brushed off her complaint, giving her a slight chuckle._

_"I like it, you should do it more often." The pair's feet danced about the floor in a gentle yet swift pattern, appendages clasped together while Desmond's free hand grasped his companion at the waste._

_"Men!" Veronica rolled her eyes. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to do this?"_

_"You look really nice in that dress,"_

_"You have no-" Veronica paused her annoyed rant to glance her irises back at the sniper's face. "You really think so?"_

_"Would I lie to you?" Veronica grinned, twirling on her heels as Desmond lifted his arm for her. Forcing her back into his torso, perhaps a little too forcefully, caused a grunt to emit from Desmond's lips. Nevertheless, he would grab Veronica's frame beneath the chandelier that shone like the unforgiving sun of the desert._

_For a moment, the two could forget the horrors of the wasteland._

_"Watch where you step, O'Connor" Unsure if she referred to his comments to her appearance or his flat footed dancing, Desmond could only crack a toothy smile._

_"A sniper always watches the dangers around him," The toothy smile would be broken as Veronica's heel came down to land upon Desmond's big toe. The sniper cringed as the Scribe spun around, lacing her appendages back with Desmond's as she turned to face him._

_"Where were you on that one, sniper?" The female questioned with a raised brow behind her mask._

_"You snuck up on me," He avoided the limp in his right foot as he spun around with the scribe._

_"I can add it to my resume," Veronica cheerfully retorted. "Punching, crafting, now sneaking!" She spun again, her arm stretching out as Desmond reached back for her._

_Behind her head, Desmond saw it. Mortimer and two masked thugs, similar to the ones they had to subdue for these masks, suits, and invitations to the ball, following the White Glove receptionist through a metal door behind the bar._

_"That's our ticket," Desmond called to his companion as he pulled her in, gracefully spinning her back to his embrace as the song ended. "We don't have a lot of time to get to Ted. Come on."_

_The wasteland would always find ways to return to the two._

__

 

The piano was replaced by the distant beating of drums.

The small chatter of the ball was replaced by the thunderous cheers of the audience.

The chandelier was replaced by the unforgiving rays of the sun.

The slender companion in the white dress was replaced by the towering crimson soldier, armed with his machete and thirsting for blood.

The first swing was a disciplined horizontal swat that was parried by Desmond's own blade. The vibration of the impact rattled the sniper's bones up into his elbows as the Frumentarius continued his advance towards the sniper. A vertical strike followed, which Desmond was able to avoid with a quick shift to his left. Letum swung again, narrowly missing the ducking sniper. With the miss, Desmond saw his chance, forcing his shoulder into his opponent's torso. Letum reeled from the hit, but was not forced down. A strong palm grabbed the sniper by the straps of his vest, hooking around his torso initially to hold in his ammunition. The Frumentarius yelled aloud as he swung around, his muscles tightening as he picked up the sniper's frame and threw him several feet and into the dirt.

The crowd loved it. They cheered for the dissolute's life force to be drained from his body. Caesar watched with a smirk upon his face. Demonstrations like this would show the weaknesses of his opponents across the river and the strength of his Legion. These weak willed profligates would not survive his will.

The sniper raised onto his knees, his lungs attempting to exfiltrate the grains of sand and dust that had been caught up as he gasped for breath. Despite the dry taste in his throat, he would have to defend himself quickly. Rushing to his feet, arming himself with the machete, the sniper quickly blocked the next strike of the charging Legionnaire, whom continued to press the attack with a deathly stare through the ungoldy expression of the golden masking. 

Desmond did his best to block the lurking figure of the Frumentarius. The sound of both blades slashing at one another echoed amongst the arena. Desmond swung and was parried by Letum, the blades creating sparks from the friction of their collision that seemed to create an extra lightshow for the audience. Every figure in the crowd was standing upon their feet, cheering for the marauding soldier under the banner of the bull. They applauded every strike of his machete, every deflected blast, and every blunt blow into the sniper. 

Letum struck, and Desmond blocked. The sniper countered, which was narrowly avoided by the Legionnaire, leaning back to avoid the blade aimed at his chin. His next move was performed with lightning speed, which Desmond could hardly even see let alone block. The blade came up from a lowered position, swinging at Desmond's hip. Before the sniper could react, the blade was slicing through fabric and flesh, tearing through muscle as Desmond shrieked out in horror. As he fell upon his side, the shadow of his enemy leering over him, the crowd roared at the river of crimson that now slowly crept out of his body and onto the sand from which he fell. They sneered at the Eastern Eagle, cried out for his immediate execution.

Vulpes watched with folded arms at the sniper as he struggled to regain himself.

Desmond's body filled with adrenaline. Though he felt the sharp pain at his side, his muscles spasming at the blow, he refused to yield to such a flesh wound. The world felt blurry. He felt dizzy at the sight of his own blood now stained upon the sand, and his left leg pained to regain its footing. He was moving solely on instinct, trying his best to ignore the opening in his body.

"Get up," Letum slurred through his mask, kicking at the sand beneath his feet. "I will not kill you while you cower in the sands."

The sniper attempted to stand, his leg now sporting rivers of flowing crimson, slowly crept onto the sand, only to slip and allow Desmond's body to falter.

"I said get up!" The Legionnaire bellowed. "Get up!" Callum wished not to end his enemy in such a weakened state. He wanted a fight, not a mercy killing. He wanted to exhaust his enemy, force a painful suffering to remind him of his sins, and then show his body to the west, letting them know that they can no longer hide behind their walls of steel or their bunkers and continue their lives of debauchery. Their time will come, and it will come at the end of his blade.

As Desmond rose to his wobbly feet, machete firmly in his grasp, the crowd began to chant.

“Aquila sanguine nobis! Aquila sanguine nobis!”

Give us the blood of the Eagle.

Letum charged again. His first strike nearly knocked the machete from Desmond's hand. The sniper retreated, wincing at his pain. 

"Coward!" The Legionnaire yelled at his target. His boot rose and forced a strong kick into Desmond's torso, which the sniper could not block. Grabbing his chest in agony, the sniper tried to ignore the slight crack of his ribcage from the blow. His chest rose and fell as Letum marched.

"Your weak will is almost pitiful," The enemy slurred. "I have hunted you for miles across the desert to seek a worthy fight. I will not let you take this from me,"

Callum swung again, more of an intimidating strike than an intent to harm. Desmond parried, though barely. The sniper tried to attack against the insults of his enemy, though the Legionnaire avoided the attack. With such a wild swing, he grabbed the sniper by his wrist, forcing the machete from his grasp. Callum's opposite hand was then brought up, but instead of his blade, Desmond was met with the hilt of the machete. The iron swung across the sniper's cheek, and this time Desmond could not ignore the cracking of his cheekbone as he fell face first into the sand.

The crowd nearly shook the entire arena with its cheering, chanting again for the blood of the Eagle. Callum was not nearly so amused. The Legionnaire circled among his prey, ready to go in for the kill. He was merely toying with the sniper. His tall frame was only shadowed by the passing falcon, circling above as a silent observer.

Stepping around the sniper, powerful boots kicked away the machete that rested just outside of the sniper's grasp. The crowd, sensing his impending doom, fueled on the Legionnaire as he knelt beside his victim, still feeling the shock of the first strike upon his torso. His hand fell upon his side, trying to hold onto the bleeding as he felt Letum's grasp upon his skull, pulling up his hair and forcing his view onto the gate.

Veronica watched through the bars with a horrified expression, surrounded by Legionnaires.

"This your female?" Letum remarked through the mask, glancing upon the Scribe as he continued to pull at Desmond's brown locks, tightening his grip to increase the pain. Desmond, at the height of his threshold, was beginning to shriek at the pain.

"Powerful build..." The man continued. "...strong will...she must make excellent...company on your trips." Desmond tried his best to stay awake. He focused his gaze on the terrified expression of his companion. Letum leaned in closer, so that the sniper could feel the cold breath of death upon his neck. 

"After I end your miserable existence...I think I will take her as my own slave. She will make a fine mother for the next generation of Legionnaires."

Desmond's irises shot open as he saw the glistening in Veronica's eyes. He saw a young girl from California with little left in the world. Her last hope in the wasteland rested in the sands of the arena. Their last chance at salvation rested in his hands....

Desmond's right elbow came up, forcefully connecting with Letum's throat. The Legionnaire immediately retreated, shocked that the sniper was still capable of such a strike. Desmond immediately returned to the offensive, his left fist coming across to strike at Letum's mask. Though his knuckles cut at the metal of the mask, it offered Desmond the opportunity he wanted - Letum's machete. The sniper grappled with the stun Frumentarius as his appendages grasped at the hilt, and both huddled into the weapon to release the other. Letum slammed his forehead into his opponent, cutting into his temple, but also allowing Desmond to pry the weapon away.

With the machete in his hand, the sniper yelled out as he released a wild swing of the blade. Callum narrowly managed to retreat, though not fully. The machete tore through the flesh of his chin and up into his mask. Cutting across the mouth, nose and forehead, the machete finished its swing and the Legionnaire had swung around, falling upon his own hands and knees. 

The two halves of the iron mask fell into the sand, their collapse echoing upon the battleground.

The entire arena had fallen silent as the champion of their Legion.

Callum's own chest now heaved as he glanced down at the blood that dripped and pooled from the cuts on his chin and mouth. The Frumentarius had been taken by surprise, and now the tables had been turned.

"Show yourself!" The sniper demanded, the point of the machete aiming at the Legionnaire's torso. "Let me see what you've been hiding behind there!"

There was a pause before the Legionnaire pushed himself up to stand, though his back still faced Desmond. Slowly, his heels spun around. At first, the shadow of the falcon hid his expression.

When the sun illuminated the Frumentarius' countenance, Desmond didn't want to believe what he saw. It looked like a ghost at first. He stood with a familiar face, though his eyes remained hateful. His armor was foreign. And yet....all Desmond could see was the young boy pushing himself through the ruins of Detroit, trying to escape the clutches of the wasteland, doing everything he could to not be swallowed up.

"No..." The sniper could hardly whisper to his younger brother through the clouds of dust. "Nick..."

"The man you refer to died in Arizona," The man standing in Legion armor responded. "My name is Callum ex Ferro, Frumentarius of the Legion and faithful servant of-"

"Your name is Nicholas O'Connor!" The sniper yelled at the now fully grown man. "What the hell are you doing out here?!" The Frumentarius failed to acknowledge the brother seven years his senior. 

"You live in the past. Your mind is filled with the delusions of a failed resistance. Yet...you try to live on in this pathetic existence. Your family is dead!" Callum yelled out like the younger brother he was. "Your friends? Dead! You are the last of a dead existence of mankind, and I intend on ending you as I ended your revolution."

"Listen to yourself!" The older brother responded. "Have you gone mad?! You let these savages poison your mind, Nick. You can't go down this road with these men." Callum stepped towards this brother, but said nothing. "This isn't you!"

"I have stepped out of your shadow, and now you will watch as I destroy it."

Callum swung at his brother, which Desmond was able to block. The Frumentarius, enraged at his brother discovering his existence, swung recklessly. Whereas with his blade he was calculated, here he refused to yield any quarter, thus giving away his defense. His strength was unable to keep up with Desmond's quickness, even with his injury. With his reckless abandonment, Desmond was able to push the younger brother away with a single palm. He refused to attack his younger brother directly, which only infuriated Callum even more. Yelling out, he attempted a powerful cross, which was blocked and then followed up with one of Desmond's patented sweeping kicks. Callum's back dropped onto the ground as Desmond knelt above him, the Frumentarius unable to retract with the sniper pinning him down.

"Get a grip! It's me, Nick! It's Desmond!"

"Get off me!"

There was a shriek in the crowd. There would be no winner in this fight.

The audience immediately was thrown into chaos by the new threat slowly creeping into the arena. The haunting presence of a dark crimson cloud shrouded over the populace, and the sight of almost instantly dropping bodies forced the spectators to abandon their posts and flee. Desmond saw this, along with his dazed brother, as an opportunity to escape. The sniper ran for the wall of the arena as crowds of people dispersed in every direction as the sky darkened into a blood red shade.

Callum rose from his feet and grabbed the machete.

The gas continued to file in and people continued to fall. Caesar was led out by Vulpes and the rest of the Frumentarii to the east, near the hills were the gas could not rise. Legionnaires, even by their balaclavas, were choking on the metals in the gas. Random bodies lay in the seating of the audience. Women shrieked. Babies wailed at the chaos. All the while, Desmond simply wanted to escape. 

Callum chased closely through the crowds, his armor now stained in dirt from being thrown around in the arena. 

"Commander ex Ferro!" A Decanus came running from his side. "The defenses at the north gate must-" the Decanus was cut short by Callum's machete running across his throat. Any obstacle in his way of meeting his objective would receive the same fate. He saw such an intense bloodlust in his tracking of the sniper through the people before him. They were simply meat. They had no meaning to him. His machete cared not if he spilled Legion, NCR, or Brotherhood blood. He wanted the Eagle.

"Come back here coward!"

He yearned to end his existence, to pay for his sins.

His vision became blurred as the cloud fell over him.

He reached...he was...getting away....no.....  
No…

Callum fell just behind where Desmond did, the brothers both succumbing to the gas as it flooded over them. The sea of crimson had sucked out all the masses of Legion spectators, leaving only a collared mutant and a curious observer from the Lucky 38...

Jonas Falkenrath glanced about the knocked out bodies before him. There was a man that donned a fox upon his head....a man whose blade was stained in blood....a woman whom had lost her vision of the future...a soldier in crimson whose intentions were of a much different shade...a sniper that had found himself in the heat of the fire...

...a man from California....with a past that not even Jonas could explain.

This was the man he wanted. This was the man he needed. It would be this abomination that would help Jonas achieve his completed vision.

 

"Wake up," Jonas beckoned through clean oxygen of the Lucky 38's basement, where Aldaric rested from his brief encounter with the toxins of the Sierra Madre. "I have a business proposition for you, Herr Metzger"


	3. Into the Maw of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the ambush at the arena, Desmond wakes in a relic of the old war. As ghosts from the past surround him, the sniper must fact his own demons and enter the maw of the beast.

_Thirteen bodies rest upon the frozen concrete, the snow stained in crimson._

_“This is your fault, god dammit!”_

_Flesh shredded by shrapnel, voices caught in their throats as they were ripped open._

_“I gave you an order - it is your duty to follow it!”_

_Five men, with blank stares that would rout an Alpha Deathclaw whimpering back into its cave._

_“You monster! We told you to stop!”_

_Men…boys… led blindly into a conflict that they knew nothing about._

_“We didn’t have a choice!”_

_Women…children…caught in a fight that they wanted nothing to do with._

_“You turned us into fucking killers!”_

_Tears didn’t fall that day. The corpses were left frozen in the positions from which they fell from the barrage of hellish artillery fire that opened up on that morning. The Paladin told them that this was just part of war, that sometimes the unintended loss of life was simply another unfortunate circumstance that came with the natural human order of conflict._

_Life wasn’t all that was lost on that autumn morning – for the humanity that Desmond O’Connor had been fighting for so long to preserve was slowly being shredded before his eyes. For when these men dragged their bodies into these giant suits of armor, shouldered their rifles, and boarded the vertibirds for the twisted landscapes of the battlefield, there was no more humanity. There were only targets in a weapon’s sight, a mere obstacle on the path to an ultimate goal that no one pulling the triggers could ever truly believe in. Empathy lost in pools of building crimson beneath the building body bags and the faces frost bitten beneath the snow. Sorrow lost in the artillery shells that cut limbs free from their host. Love lost in knives that pierced hearts over and over until they no longer beat._

_Humanity died with the bombs._

_Paladin O’Connor slammed his lids, either unable or unwilling to be a witness to the death that had collected in an unimportant ditch in an unimportant part of the city._

_**Open your eyes, Desmond. I need you to see what you’ve done.** _

 

 

Those same lids flew open at the cue of rumbling thunder in the skies above that shook the wooden floor boards beneath where his back lay. Irises strained to see underneath the low lighting that surrounded him, muscles hardly reacting to his impulses to get up. The frame of the sniper struggled to even push himself to his side. He had studied the effects of temporary paralysis and how long it took the body to recover afterwards, though this first-hand experience didn’t put his mind at ease regarding what put him in this position.

His memory was foggy at best, appendages reaching out around him as his head hung to the floor, vision attempting to return past the haze that blanketed his sight. He could feel the lumber in his touch – a sturdy fiber that had withstood even some of the most hellish of storms since the bombs. He felt the splinters sticking out at his palm as it retreated closer to his body to support his weight attempting to push up from the floor. 

Lungs inhaled, and then almost immediately hacked at the metallic taste caught in his throat and at the smog within his breath. Leaning forward, his body wanting to expunge the toxin in a form of vomit if not for the lack of content within his stomach (no thanks to his Legion captors), the sniper struggled to regain his breath.

Legion captors. 

His neck snapped backwards, pulling his gaze up to his shoulders in an attempt to glance around the darkened chamber. Squinted irises, continuing to struggle while the mind made another effort to regain itself, caught little light about his position to confirm that he was still at the whim of Caesar or…

That lump in his throat came back…and it certainly wasn’t the atmosphere’s fault this time. It was that ghastly image of Nicholas…of the blade that was held by white-tipped knuckles and was led by the blood lust in the irises of a boy from Detroit that used to dream of peace in the Motor City. Desmond could now only see the towering figure adorned in the sigil of the bull, hear his hateful screams and promises of ending the sniper’s suffering, feel the power of the sadness that had built up in Motor City come crashing down on his cheek in the form of his younger brother’s fist.

The warriors called him…Callum ex Ferro. The slaves called him Letum. Desmond painfully pushed his body against the closest stone wall that he could. The man known as Nicholas O’Connor ceased to exist in this world. The rough movement opened his vision up to a window, where a slender figure sat upon the sill, his right leg hanging out the opening in the wall. The apparition hid in a dark shroud, the craftiness of his appendages going to work on the weapon that sat in his lap, dancing about individual rounds before placing them into the opening inside. Chin turning uninterested towards Desmond for a moment as the sniper’s lids narrowed to try and place identification upon this visitor, he would turn back for the rifle.

“You’re awake,” The voice observed in a flat tone as it turned back for the weapon. “I was beginning to think that you choked on the Cloud.” The familiar tone, Desmond figured, had to be an illusion. The last time he heard that voice, it was right before the shrapnel of his fragmentation grenade tore into the lung of Paladin Marcus Ryder, effectively ending the existence of his best friend since the Junior Initiate Program. Desmond winced as he struggled to a sitting position, his knees still weakened from his previous state for however many hours the toxin had him incapacitated. This wouldn’t be the first time the voices from the dead came whispering to him into the night, but none of them have ever felt so…alive…before. 

It wasn’t just the life behind the tone of the apparition – it was the manner in which he spoke – the tone that sounded more like a computer’s voice reading out orders rather than the voice of a man who would’ve so quickly taken his chance to kill the sniper. It was that cold chill that shivered down Desmond’s spine as he watched the shadow of the figure flash upon the floor behind the lightning that streaked across the sky that began to worry the sniper about something much more real than ghosts.

“What do you want from me?” The sniper snarled out, to which his old spotter scoffed as he continued to fiddle with the energy weapon in his hand, tending to the scope of the rifle that Desmond found unfamiliar.

“You should be thanking me,” Marcus rather blankly retorted to the figure sprawled on the floor of the clock tower. “I was worried that Caesar’s new champion was going to open up your chest and take your heart for his own trophy.” Round loaded into the rifle, the audible pump loading the weapon fully, metal frame resting upon the scout’s knee. 

“So what…I’m your prisoner instead of his now?” Marcus didn’t bother offering a scoff at another one of his ill-informed questions.

“Prisoner wouldn’t be the proper term for your predicament,” Appendages toying with the barrel, double checking the cleanliness of the weapon. “…though if you wish to better understand it that way, I am not one to tell you otherwise. If you don’t do as I say…”

There was a high-pitched beep coming from right below Desmond’s chin, followed by a blinking red light that flickered shadows on Marcus’ face. A gasp, appendages reaching for the device that was locked around Desmond’s neck, its presence known with every sharp breath the sniper took as he tried to wretch the device from his skin. The beeping intensified, and the sniper tried ever harder to rip the damn thing from him. The spotter let out a sigh at the pathetic showing that his shooter put up for his life – regardless, he held his hand up and the beeping ceased, Desmond falling to the floor and gasping for breath as the metal piece cut into the flesh of his neck.

 

Collared like some fucking animal. 

 

“What the fuck is this?” The sniper demanded in sharp snarl, though keeping his gaze to the floor and away from the ghost.

“You know all too well about the destructive tendencies of human nature,” Marcus continued to look on from his sitting position in pity. “Greed, mistrust, bloodlust…these collars are the binds to your primal instinct, and they will serve you well outside of these walls.” Irises narrowed and rose to the shadowy figure that sat before the sniper.

“Outside these walls?” Desmond repeated in a haze of confusion, shaking his head. “This can’t be real…”

“And why not?” Marcus’ legs swept over the sill, his boots thundering louder than the storm that surrounded the Madre before the sniper.

“I watched you die!” Desmond barked out at the shadow, his glare rising up into the cold eyes that now rested curiously before him.

“If only it were that easy, Desmond O’Connor. For a man that has dealt so much death across both horizons, you still have so much yet to learn.” Spinning on his heels, Marcus’ arms folded before his torso as that cold gaze found itself to the spotlights on the giant structure that loomed outside of that same cloud of dark crimson that suffocated everyone in the arena on the Hill. The sniper struggled to his feet behind the scout, trying to follow his gaze.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” As Marcus glanced over his shoulder to another showing of the weak physical form of the sniper, Desmond tried to make out the form of the structure through blurry vision.

“What is this?” A repeated question once again ignored. “Why am I here?” 

“The Sierra Madre…its existence itself was just a myth before I happened upon it. Its doors remained sealed shut since the bombs fell, everyone inside has been trapped since. Frozen in time it sits behind this toxic cloud, begging the treasure hunter inside all of us to come and take a look inside.” Marcus turned back to gaze at the façade of the structure. “It’s a monument to the past, of the promise of lives one had, now forever lost.”

Desmond’s feet shuffled closer to the window.

“And I’m what…supposed to find this treasure for you?” 

A breath through his nostrils, Marcus turned to the former shooter of Sniper Team Bravo.

“Ever perceptive, O’Connor.” Glance back to the casino. “It’s a nice little twist of irony, isn’t it? You’ve been running from your past for so long…and now, you must confront those same demons that you’ve been trying so desperately to outrun in order to survive.” Irises narrowed as Desmond turned to Marcus.

“You did this.”

“No…you did. Someone has to pay for your crimes, Desmond.” Marcus turned away from the sniper, the figure of the apparition stalking about the windowsill with the Holorifle still in tow. “You can enter the cloud and face your fears…or run. Leave your friends to their demise once more.”

“Where’s Veronica?” A roll of his eyes, Marcus slowly turned towards Desmond, though he didn’t waste the time to completely turn to him. 

“Another one of your ill-fated companions? Did you save a grenade for her as well?” Silence remained between the two, and Marcus returned his back towards Desmond as he glanced at the casino. “She’s somewhere in the villa – I imagined the mutant had something to do with her retrieval.”

“If you lay a hand on her I swear-“

“That what?” Marcus’ tone remained blank, despite the fear and anger audible in the sniper’s voice. “That you will set fire to this villa until you find her, and allow everyone to be doomed to their graves? You have no idea what awaits you in the clouds, Paladin O’Connor, and perhaps it would be easier to believe the tales and continue to ignore what I have to say than to listen for the true horror of what anticipates your arrival.”

Desmond’s teeth clenched, and as much as he wanted to make a try for the rifle, he knew that with one false move, the collar goes off and his hopes for finding the Scribe with it. He wondered if Nick was dragged in here too, but that was besides the point. Slowly, he turned his angered gaze from the spotter back to the casino, whose bright marble walls stretched into the blood red sky. None of this seemed real, but perhaps Marcus was right – that the reality of his situation was easier to believe than what he wanted to see.

“The past…” Desmond whispered, his head continuing to shake in disbelief. No, this was too much. Too fast. “I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t.” Marcus’ response was bland, as if he had already expected Desmond’s reaction. "Take a look at yourself; what do you understand? You are drawn to war like an insect to the flame, willfully throwing yourself into the fire because it is all you know. Your family is shattered; your followers are all dead. Yet you stand before me, ever so eager to trot your rifle into the flame. It is within the fire that you were welded. It is within the fire that you will die; an empty shell of a man that didn't know when to stop loading the rounds until they consumed him.” Marcus’ gaze lowered. “Finally, something we have in common.” Desmond’s entire frame nearly shook in doubt. 

“I’m still alive; that’s more than I can say for you!” The sniper spat out, to which Marcus slowly turned to meet the sniper’s gaze with the cold, unceasing pair of irises that confirmed something terrifying within Desmond.

“Are you?” Marcus questioned, his head tilting in honest curiosity. The sniper twisted, perplexed irises trying to focus in on the scout’s curious tone that sent shivers down his spine. No, this wasn’t right. He had seen the dead walking before him. But never had their presence felt so clear in the chilling air that raised the pores all over his skin in fright, or that could feel so tight with each breath that he took.

Those piercing hues, though. Desmond was nearly paralyzed when he caught Marcus’ glance. There was something…dead about them. Yet here he stood…a murmur of the past that wasn’t quite through with the sniper. 

“Your childish horror stories aren’t going to scare me,” Desmond lied through his teeth. “Just tell me what you need me to do, and you can leave me alone for good.” Marcus almost gave a smile, Desmond could just see it peeking through the corner or his lips.

“I wish it could be that easy, but there is a greater purpose for you to be here.” Marcus turned to leave the rifle at the window’s edge, his frame climbing back to the edge of the opening. “Find the others. You’ll have an old friend waiting for you at the fountain.” Marcus’ legs swung around, hanging out into the breeze as he looked once more with his frozen gaze towards the Sierra Madre, its presence dominating the landscape. 

“The more you try to run from your past, the harder it will be to come to terms with yourself when the ghosts return to you.” Marcus’ chin twisted towards his shoulder, barely catching Desmond out of his peripherals. “Letting go isn’t an option anymore. The sooner you understand this…the sooner your eyes will open. I will see you inside.” 

Marcus’ frame fell into the cloud, Desmond running to try and find the silhouette of the apparition. Irises scanned the thickness of the crimson fog to catch the slightest hint of the scout. No thud, no sight of the scout…it was as if he just vanished.

The breeze whistled through the alleys of the villa, carrying the whispers of the secrets that hid in the shadows of the streets and within the walls of the Madre that had stood so tall for so long. Palms clutched onto the holorifle, left behind by the scout.

 

Into the maw of the beast.


End file.
